The Eyes of a Boy
by Allidon
Summary: He doesn't do dates, not really. But he likes Ian, although he's not quite sure how he's formed that opinion. He doesn't even know the guy but there's something there, something intriguing and he wants to see what it is. So he acts totally on impulse and blurts out his agreement before he can change his mind.
1. The Eyes of a Boy

**Just an idea I had this morning about Mickey being nervous before a first date. This is my first fic in this fandom so hopefully it came out ok.**

* * *

Mickey hates queues. He hates waiting around in general, but he especially hates queues; hates being crammed in with a bunch of people who are equally as impatient as he is, jostling against each other as they move up the line. He hates the queue he's in right now especially, in a diner down the street from the construction site he's been working on for the last two months with a list as long as his arm from all the various contractors there. He hates doing the lunch run, he'd much rather get on with his work in peace, but somehow he seems to get landed with it more often than not.

When it's finally his turn, he steps forward, still growling at the floor, and slides the list over the counter before he looks up. When he does, he's not really paying attention; he's squinting slightly because the sun's reflecting off the metal surface and he's pissed off at having waited so long, so it takes him a minute to take in the, quite frankly, beautiful man that's staring straight at him. He blinks three times in quick succession, takes another look, closes his eyes and then looks again. He's still there, looking at him expectantly, his lips twitching slightly. Mickey swallows hard, snatches up the list and mutters something vague. The guy—Ian, his name-tag says—nods, as if what Mickey just said made perfect sense, and reaches out for the paper in Mickey's hand with a grin. Mickey flinches, and then Ian's fingers are brushing against his, and Mickey thinks that this counter-top must be loaded with static because it's like an electric shock.

Ian obviously feels it too, he's looking at him intently, and Mickey pulls his hand away to rub awkwardly at his lip. Ian's eyes flick up and down, sizing Mickey up, and then he smirks a little, makes a show of turning round to prep the food and then looking back at Mickey over his shoulder. Mickey's suddenly aware of the queue of people behind him and he can feel their eyes burning into his back as if they all know that he's staring at Ian's ass as he gets the order ready and that he's growing an increasingly obvious boner. He looks down, adjusts his pants as best he can and wills his fucking dick to behave itself. He just wants to get his lunch and leave.

* * *

Everyone's almost finished eating when Alex notices it. "Hey, Mick," he calls over, and Mickey doesn't respond. "Mick," Alex says, more insistently, and Mickey sighs and looks across.

"What?"

"Why didn't you tell us you got hit on at the diner?" Alex is grinning like a Cheshire cat, a suggestive leer on his face, and Mickey's face creases in confusion.

"The fuck are you talking about, huh?"

Alex waves a piece of paper in his direction, and Mickey's none the wiser. _Call me! Kiss kiss kiss._" Alex is putting on a high-pitched, girly voice and that's when realisation dawns. Mickey's across the room in three long strides, snatches the paper they'd written the lunch list on out of Alex's hand, and looks down at it curiously.

Sure enough, scrawled at the bottom of the page is a phone number, and a request to call. It's actually only one kiss but Mickey's too baffled to care; he can't think of one reason why Ian would want Mickey to call him. Well, he can think of several if he's honest, but what he _can't_ figure out is why Ian would be interested in _him. _His co-workers are all looking at him and he can feel heat rising up his neck; he scowls at them, screws the paper up and tosses it into the trash can before stomping out of the room. He hears the laughter and catcalling as he goes and although he knows they mean no harm, he still hates it.

He thinks about Ian all day, about his red hair and green eyes that crinkled in the corners when he smiled and the way his lips curved, about neat, sloping handwriting and well-defined upper arms. He thinks about big hands that would hold him tight while— He catches his thoughts before they go further, clears his throat and tries to focus on his work. He fails.

He retrieves the list later when they've all gone, smoothes it out carefully between his fingers as he stares at the numbers. It's a mistake, is his first thought. Or a joke. But neither make sense, a mistake is unlikely and a joke seems…a bit pointless really. He chews on the inside of his cheek as he considers the possibility of it being a genuine request, that Ian really did just want him to call. He'd like it to be, he thinks. Maybe.

He ponders it all the way home, allows himself to daydream a little about actually calling. He won't, he tells himself. If he's still got the paper in his pocket it's only so no one else can have it to tease him with; if he sits on his bed later with it in his left hand and his cell phone in his right, or if he jerks off while thinking about red hair and strong hands, it still doesn't mean anything. He isn't going to call.

* * *

He calls the next evening, having spent another day distracted to the point that the nail on his thumb is black from hitting it so many times with the hammer. He tells himself that he's only calling to prevent any further injuries, because he really can't afford the time off, but deep down he can't help but admit that he's curious. Curious what this guy might see in him, curious as to where it might go. Where he might like it to go.

He has a whole speech planned out but when Ian answers, he forgets it all instantly. Ian's voice is warm and soft, but with a wary edge that somehow rubs against Mickey just right. It goes straight to his dick and he has to take a couple of deep breaths to regain his composure.

When he finally manages to speak, his words come out as a garbled mess. "Hey…um. It's…yesterday. At the diner, you… You gave me your number. So, um. I'm calling." He trails off lamely, cringing at himself as he stammers. He waits for Ian to laugh.

Ian doesn't laugh. He's silent for a moment, and then it's the strangest thing but Mickey swears he can _feel _the guy smiling over the phone, can hear the breathy exhale Ian makes as his mouth curves open, can see it big and wide with crinkles at the corners of his eyes. "Yeah, I remember," he says, the wary edge all gone, and Mickey almost sags onto the bed in relief. Ian's still talking, chattering excitedly, and Mickey can't help but grin too. "I was wondering if you might want to go out sometime," Ian's saying brightly. "On a date," he adds, as if suddenly he's the one that's unsure of himself.

Mickey hesitates. He hadn't actually thought this far ahead. He doesn't _do_ dates, not really. He does quick fucks with guys he meets in dingy gay bars where he knows he'll never see anyone who might recognise him. A date is…new. But he likes Ian, although he's not quite sure how he's formed that opinion. He doesn't even know the guy but there's something there, something intriguing and he wants to see what it is. So he acts totally on impulse and blurts out his agreement before he can change his mind.

Ian suggests dinner and a movie and Mickey wants to laugh out loud because he's clearly been transported into a fucking rom-com. Except he doesn't, because that part of his brain doesn't seem to be the part that's communicating with his mouth, and suddenly he's agreed and he's talking about which movies are on and what time on Friday and whether he likes Italian food. Before he knows it the arrangements are all made and Ian's saying goodbye with a smile in his voice and Mickey's heart is pounding in his chest. Ian hangs up first and Mickey stares at his cell phone for the next five minutes wondering what the hell just happened.

* * *

Mickey doesn't sleep a wink that night. He lies in bed, staring at the ceiling and every stupid chick-flick Mandy's ever forced him to sit through runs through his head. He suddenly realises that he has no idea of date etiquette where two guys are involved. He has no idea who's supposed to pay for what or who drives who home or if there's some sort of "not on the first date" rule. He thinks up every possible thing that could go wrong and then multiplies them all by ten, so by two am he's still wide awake and wondering what the fuck he's let himself in for. By five, he's given up on sleep entirely and he takes a quick, lukewarm shower, cursing his shitty water heater the whole time, and then goes through an entire pot of coffee before he leaves for work.

He's still distracted at work, so he wonders what the point was in even calling Ian if it didn't work, but then he remembers the breathy smile Ian had made over the phone when he realised Mickey had called him and he decides maybe that was the point. He's not sure anyone's ever been so happy to hear from him before.

At lunchtime, he refuses point-blank to go for takeout, and the guys make jokes all afternoon about cute waitresses. He ignores them mostly, flips them off a few times, but he's too tired to really care. He counts down the minutes of his last hour so that he can finally go home and get some sleep.

* * *

Mandy calls him the next evening, for the first time in weeks. She asks thinly veiled questions about his love life, and he retorts back that he never asks about hers. She laughs at him and he grins; he's not sure why but suddenly he blurts out that he has a date on Friday and she squeals with excitement. He rolls his eyes while she interrogates him, but all he tells her is yes, he's cute—he doesn't say what he actually thinks which is that Ian is fucking gorgeous and could probably do so much better than Mickey fucking Milkovich—and yes he seems nice and yes he'll call her on Saturday to tell her how it went. He's not really relishing the thought given that his current worst-case scenario is that Ian will turn up, take one look at him and realise that _yes_, he had given his number to the wrong guy. He doesn't tell Mandy that part because he knows exactly what she'll say and he knows it won't help.

* * *

When Friday comes, Mickey still isn't really sleeping. It's ridiculous, he thinks, to be so worked up over one stupid date like a dumb teenage girl, but he can't seem to shift it. He manages to get through the day without causing himself any major injuries, and he waves off Friday night drinks with ease. Instead he goes home, showers and then pours himself a substantial glass of Jack. It's not because he's nervous, he tells himself. It's just because it's Friday and he's used to drinking on a Friday. Three mouthfuls in and there's a pleasant burn in his throat and he's suddenly feeling a whole lot more confident.

He waits outside the movie theatre, trying to avoid checking the time and managing it maybe every other time that he feels the urge. He's a little early, but worst case scenario #346 had been arriving stupidly late and missing the whole thing, so he'd rather be the one waiting around. Until he checks his phone yet again and it's 7.58 and Ian isn't here yet. He know he's being ridiculous but still, doubt curls in his stomach as he watches it switch to 7.59.

By 8.05, he's developed a twitch in his eye and his lip is almost bleeding, he's chewing on it so hard. He's about to call it and leave, when suddenly there's a body in front of him. He looks up and meets green eyes, crinkling at the side as they smile.

"Hi," Ian says, and Mickey can feel himself grinning like an idiot. Suddenly, he's not nervous at all.


	2. Momentum

**I didn't intend to write any more of this, but people asked and I had a couple of lingering thoughts. Hope it comes out ok.**

* * *

Ian buys the tickets and Mickey buys the snacks and Mickey starts to think that maybe this whole date malarkey isn't such a big deal after all. They sit three rows from the back and just as the lights dim, Ian looks across at him and shoots him a massive grin that makes Mickey's chest feel tight.

It's the latest superhero movie and they laugh in all the same places and then right in the middle of the first action sequence, Ian leans over and whispers about how fucking awesome it is. His breath is hot against Mickey's ear, a heat that spreads right across his face, and he swallows and nods before he finds his voice and makes some lame comment about the soundtrack in return. He squints over at Ian and can't quite meet his eyes, but Ian's looking at him like whatever he says would be right and that feeling in Mickey's chest grows. He likes it.

They knock their shoulders together as they push through the crowds at the end, walk down the street to the restaurant talking about car chases and one-liners and whether they'd rather fuck Chris Evans or Sebastian Stan. Mickey blurts out Evans without a second thought while Ian mulls it over and eventually picks Stan, and Mickey thinks that somehow it's really cool that they didn't choose the same.

They talk over dinner about tiny, inconsequential things but Mickey still learns more about Ian than he thought it was possible to know about a person. He learns that Ian has five siblings and deadbeat parents and bipolar disorder. He says "like manic depression, right?" and regrets it instantly, cursing himself for probably being insensitive. He feels instantly relieved when Ian just nods and smiles and says "right", and he learns that Ian can make him feel like his heart's about to burst out of his chest by doing hardly anything at all. He learns that Ian wanted to join the army and couldn't, that he's going to community college instead but that he hasn't really found the right direction yet. He learns that Ian twists his spaghetti with a flick at the end, that his lips twitch in a certain way when he's amused, that his leg trembles ever so slightly when he's nervous. He learns so much and still he wants to know more.

Ian pays for dinner and when Mickey opens his mouth to protest, Ian just looks at him with a smile and his eyes all wide. "You can pay next time," he says, and Mickey closes his mouth.

* * *

Mickey does pay next time, shoots Ian a glare when he reaches for his wallet. That glare has melted many a lesser man but Ian smiles like it's the best thing he's ever seen and Mickey kind of likes that.

Ian kisses him after their second date. They're standing awkwardly under the L, Ian's apartment one way and Mickey's the other, and Mickey's shifting from foot to foot as he chews his lip.

Ian leans forward like it's the most natural thing in the world, grabs Mickey's hand as their lips meet. Mickey's never kissed anyone before, never wanted to, and he freezes up, his brain racing a thousand miles an hour and wading through treacle all at once. He doesn't know what to do, how to react and then just as Ian tenses and Mickey realises that he's about to pull away, he instinctively sucks Ian's bottom lip into his mouth. He feels Ian relax against him, loses himself in the way their mouths move together and forgets that he doesn't do shit like this.

* * *

After that second date, they text almost constantly. Ian sends Mickey pictures, of the sunrise and stray cats and funny bits of graffiti and every other thing he sees that he thinks is special and interesting. It's like a door inside Ian's head and Mickey mostly tells him to fuck off but he's only joking and somehow Ian seems to know it. Mickey likes it and is terrified by it in equal measure, wonders how this one guy can see through him so easily.

His co-workers think his new-found social life is hilarious, toss jokes around about how his phone is glued to his hand when he's never responded to any of their texts ever. He just shrugs, squints at Ian's latest photo and fires off the first sarcastic thing that comes to mind. Ian sends a tongue-poking emoji back, taking none of his shit, and Mickey feels weirdly content for the rest of the afternoon.

* * *

By the fourth date the kisses are heated, desperate, and after the fifth Mickey hesitantly invites Ian back to his. Ian isn't hesitant, is saying yes before Mickey even finishes the question, and Mickey panics all the way home because he wants to get this _right._

He stands with his head in the fridge, offering Ian beer or soda or OJ, and Ian sneaks up behind him and slides his hand up his shirt. "I just want _you_," he whispers in Mickey's ear, his voice husky and promising, and Mickey is like putty in his hands.

They fuck hard and fast and soft and gentle and Mickey's never felt anything like it before. There are lips and hands and tongue and teeth and Mickey's eyes are locked on Ian's, almost at the edge, teetering over. Ian is saying his name like it's important, like it's precious, and Mickey thinks that if he can ever make Ian feel a fraction of what he feels right in that moment then he could die happy.

Ian sends him over with a final snap of his hips and Mickey sees stars, feels himself go limp even as Ian follows. They collapse against the mattress, breathing heavily, and for a long while neither of them speaks.

"Fuck," Ian says finally, blowing smoke towards the ceiling and passing the cigarette over to Mickey.

Mickey doesn't answer, just takes a deep drag and watches the patterns in the smoke. He never wants this to end.

* * *

They've been seeing each other for a month when it happens. They've been to the Sox game, actually paid for tickets rather than sneaking in, and are ripping the piss out of each other when Mickey hears his name being called from behind him. He tenses, turns sharply and finds himself face to face with Alex and one of his sons.

"Hey Mick," Alex is saying, but Mickey can't hear him. He sees his co-worker's mouth moving but all he hears is static, adrenaline rushing through him.

He can see Ian out of the corner of his eye, watching him warily as if he's expecting Mickey to bolt at any minute. Mickey wants to, can feel his feet itching to move, but he hates doing what people expect and so instead he ignores his instinct, plants his feet firmly on the ground and grabs Ian's hand.

"This is Ian," he says to Alex, whose eyes look ready to pop out of his head. "The cute waitress," he adds, in case his workmate needs any further clarification.

"Oh," Alex says, and it's the first time Mickey's ever seen him speechless. "Well…that's cool. Good to meet you, Ian." He leans forward, shakes Ian's hand, and Mickey feels his breathing begin to slow. Alex claps him on the back, grins lewdly at him. "About fucking time, man," he says and Mickey doesn't have a clue what he means but nods dumbly as Alex begins to move away.

He stares after him, eyebrows knitted together in confusion, and then Ian squeezes his hand. "C'mon," Ian says. "Let's go back to mine."

* * *

The first time Mickey meets Ian's family it's Thanksgiving. Ian drops increasingly obvious hints for a good three weeks until finally he just comes right out and invites him. Mickey is reluctant at first, thinks that he'll just be in the way somehow, but Ian turns on his damn puppy eyes. Mickey can never say no to those and Ian fucking knows it.

When they get there, Ian pauses on the back porch. Mickey's nervous, and he knows that Ian knows it, and he looks down at his feet. Ian rubs a thumb over Mickey's cheekbone, plants a soft kiss on his lips. "It's gonna be fine," he says, linking his fingers with Mickey's. "They're gonna love you."

Mickey snorts, ignores the L-word because there's too much locked behind it that he can't process right now, and knocks his shoulder against Ian's. "Let's get it over with then," he says flippantly, and Ian grins and pushes the door open.

The first thing Mickey thinks is that Ian's family is _loud._ There are people everywhere, almost on top of each other, shrieking at each other and he thinks there's a baby crying. Ian's sister is cooking, swatting at her boyfriend as he grabs her ass; his brother is playing video games with his girlfriend and she's crowing as she beats him easily. The younger siblings are shouting at each other upstairs, their neighbours are swapping twin babies back and forth between them—Mickey wonders how neighbours constitute family but doesn't ask—and then they all see Ian and they're whooping and cheering and everyone's hugging.

The second thing Mickey thinks is that this is a house where people are loved and important and valued. It's everything his house wasn't, and for a minute his throat closes up but then Ian meets his eyes, lights up and then he's introducing everyone and Mickey's just trying to keep track. Everyone's smiling and laughing and Mickey thinks that maybe a family Thanksgiving isn't so bad.

Ian holds his hand under the table while they eat, occasionally letting it wander a bit and then grinning mischievously at him when Mickey tenses. There's constant chatter and Mickey joins in here and there, passes the potatoes, laughs at the jokes, but mostly he watches Ian. Ian's face is shining, all lit up like this is his favourite place in the world, and Mickey can't take his eyes off him.

* * *

Ian meets Mandy three days later when she comes to visit Mickey. They hit it off instantly, and Mickey would almost be jealous if he wasn't so pleased. He and Mandy don't see much of each other these days, so when they get together it's usually a haze of weed and too much beer and not enough sleep. Somehow Ian just slots in like he belongs there, wedged between them on Mickey's over-stuffed sofa, losing to Mandy at GTA almost as spectacularly as he loses to Mickey. Ian falls asleep first, the lightweight, his head lolling back as Mickey and Mandy slip off to the kitchen to find food and share the last of the weed she brought.

"I like him," she says approvingly, digging through Mickey's cupboards. "I didn't credit you with such good taste." He groans and flicks a towel at her, and she grins back, unfazed. "Growl at me all you like," she says. "You've struck fucking lucky there, Mick. Don't let him go."

Mickey rolls his eyes, but he knows she's right. Ian is everything he ever told himself he didn't need but wanted all the same and he's been waiting to fuck it up but the more he reveals the more Ian seems to like it and he's starting to think that maybe this is how it's supposed to be.

He doesn't intend to let Ian go. Ever.

* * *

When they've been together a little over nine months, the lease comes up on Ian's apartment and he's talking about renewal terms as they lie in Mickey's bed, twisting their legs together, loose and relaxed.

"Why don't you just move in here?" Mickey says it without thinking, the words falling out before he can cage them up, and Ian frowns for a brief second before breaking into a huge grin.

"Really?" he asks lightly. He's pretending not to care, but Mickey can feel the tremble in his leg, can see the way his eyes have softened hopefully. He wouldn't take the offer back even if he could.

"Yes, really," he says, his tone as brusque as Ian's had been casual. "Makes sense," he adds, narrowing his eyes as if to dare Ian to make a big deal out of it. "We're always one place or the other; it's stupid to be paying for two apartments where we can just share one."

Ian ignores the eye-narrowing and his grin widens before he launches himself at Mickey, rolling him over and pinning him down. "Yes," he says happily. "Yes, I will."

"Wasn't a fucking proposal," Mickey grumbles, but he can't help but smile back. "And your fuckhead brother better help move your shit."

Ian just kisses him, soft then hard then hungry, his hands wandering, and Mickey kisses him back with equal fervour. It doesn't seem a big deal, Ian moving in. They spend all their free time together anyway, and besides…whenever he thinks about the future all he sees is Ian.

* * *

They have their first fight a month after Ian moves in. It's over something dumb like whose turn it is to do laundry, and they argue about it for over an hour. Mickey doesn't even know why he's doing it—he's fairly certain that actually Ian's right and it _is_ his turn—but he's determined not to back down and then Ian's jutting his chin out stubbornly, grabbing his jacket and leaving. Mickey stares at the door in shock and he's not sure at all what to do next.

He smokes three cigarettes in quick succession, drinks a beer, smokes some more. He calls Mandy, and he can hear her rolling her eyes at him as he tells her what happened. She tells him he's an idiot, and he agrees, and then she says he just needs to let Ian calm down a little. He tells her to fuck off because he hates waiting around for shit, he wants to fix it _now,_ and she tells him to trust her. He calls her a douchebag and she calls him an asshole straight back, and they make plans for her next visit. She makes him promise that Ian will be there and tells him that she'll kick his ass if he isn't.

He drinks another beer while mulling over her advice, and decides to give it another hour and then start searching all their usual haunts. Ian's left his medication behind and it's overdue now, and he tells himself that he needs to find Ian for his own good. He knows, deep down, that it's more for himself. He feels like half of him is missing.

* * *

Ian arrives back precisely fifty-nine minutes later. Mickey knows because he's been watching the minutes rack up for the last half an hour and he already has his jacket on ready to go, just waiting for the last minute to roll over. He's pacing up and down, trying to kill time, when he hears the scrape of the key in the lock and then the bang as Ian kicks the door in the bottom corner where it sticks. Mickey freezes, wanting to appear nonchalant and realising that he can't, and whirls round just as Ian shuts the door behind him.

"I'm sorry," he says, just as Ian says the exact same words. He's not sure how but before he knows it they're pressed up against each other, pressing lips together hard, knocking teeth, hands desperately touching everywhere they can. They whisper apologies against skin, shed clothes quickly and gracelessly, fuck hard against the kitchen counter. Ian grips his hips so hard that he leaves bruises and Mickey thrusts back against him demanding more, more, closer, harder. They come in a blaze of sweat and fire and white-hot heat and then Ian's lips are on the back of his neck, whispering words that Mickey knows have been there for months, hanging between them. His words are garbled in response, he can't even form them properly, but Ian knows and Mickey knows that he knows and it's enough.

He says it later though, just to be sure, after they've fucked again, over and over, and they're exhausted and sated and curled up in bed. Ian's asleep, or halfway there at least, and Mickey is just looking at him, gazing at his face and wondering what this man even sees in him. Ian's eyes are closed, his breathing steady, and Mickey brushes a strand of red hair off his face, marvels in the softness of his skin, wriggles in closer and whispers. Ian hears, and Ian smiles, and Mickey closes his eyes.


End file.
